“I don’t think we’re meant to grow old together.”That’s what my husband said to me on a Thursday night in October, standing in our kitchen with his coat still on.I was at the stove stirring a pot of chili. His favorite. The kind with the extra beans and the little bit of cinnamon that he always said made it taste like Sunday afternoons at his grandmother’s house. I had the radio on. I was humming.I didn’t even turn around at first.“What did you say, honey?”
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